Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)

by Robin LaFevers

  “Three,” I tell him. “With horses.”

  His eyes light up and he smiles. “Horses?”

  I hurry back to the door and peer out. The men have reached the courtyard and I can hear their voices. “I still say we should just make for Nantes. We’ll be there shortly after dark.”

  “Empty-handed,” another one points out. “And I don’t relish being the one to tell d’Albret that they got clean away and we’ve nothing to report.”

  The little jailor sends me a sly look.

  “Hell, we don’t even know what we’re searching for. The girl? The prisoner? How far could either one of them have gotten?”

  “I say we should just keep riding and not return,” one of them mutters darkly. “Who knows where his wrath will fall.”

  As the men dismount, I chafe at the convent’s theology. It is not nearly well enough suited to the real world for my liking. I am allowed to kill in self-defense, but is the danger these men present enough to qualify as self-defense? For all that I have decided I no longer care what the convent or Mortain thinks, their teachings are not as easy to discard as an old gown.

  But these are d’Albret’s men, not innocents. And if I do not kill them, Beast will not reach Rennes. Which means their deaths are necessary for me to follow the convent’s most recent orders. If Mortain does not like it, He can take it up with the abbess herself.

  “See to the horses,” the leader says, taking his saddlebags from his mount. “I’ll go start a fire.”

  “Don’t drink all the wine!”

  The leader’s grin flashes white in the gloaming. The others dismount and head for the stables. The gargoyle and I exchange a glance. Our presence will be known once they see the mules and cart. A minute later, a shout goes up, and one of the men sticks his head out of the stable door. The captain pauses.

  “Someone’s here,” he calls out.

  The captain nods. “We will tell them we need lodgings for the night.” His hand goes to his sword hilt. “And we will discourage them from arguing the point.”

  I catch the gargoyle’s eye and hold up my garrote, letting him know that I will take the captain. He nods his understanding and points to the stable. He will take the first one to come out. The third one is up for grabs—whoever gets to him first. My knife would be quicker, but in the dusk I cannot be certain of a kill strike, and I do not want to risk his calling out a warning.

  I wrap the ends of the garrote firmly around my hands and wait. The captain approaches, calling out a greeting. “Hello? You in there. We have need of your hospitality.”

  When there is no answer, his hand drifts away from his sword. As he draws closer, a still calm descends over me. When he is within arm’s length, I step quickly from the shadows, wrap the wire around his neck, jam my knee into his kidneys, and pray for strength. My movements are so quick and sure there is not even a whisper or a gurgle. But the man is strong and he flails against me, trying to grab his sword. I lean my body weight into him and jam his hand against the stone wall of the lodge.

  The second man emerges from the stable. His eyes widen as he sees his captain and I locked in our deadly embrace. Before he can reach for his sword, there is a soft thwack as the gargoyle’s stone splits his forehead.

  But the third guard must have heard something for he comes out of the stable with his crossbow cocked and loaded. I maneuver the struggling captain around so his body can shield mine, then brace myself for the violent bite of the crossbow bolt. There is a faint whisper of sound instead, as if a swift bird has just darted by, then a knife—my own knife—is jutting from the man’s throat.

  I look over to find Beast hanging out the window. He is pale as milk and leaning heavily against the sill, but he sends me a grin. “I’ll take the chestnut gelding,” he says, just before his eyes roll up and he crashes to the floor.

  Merde. I hope he has not ripped out the stitches.

  Once we are back inside, the jailor starts to scuttle over to the fallen Beast. I tell him to leave him be, then grab a blanket from the trestle bed and cover the passed-out giant. Except for the paleness of his face, he looks as if he is sleeping peacefully. I cannot decide if I want to kick him or thank him. It will be impossible to keep him alive if he does not have a care for his wounded body.

  I look up to find the little gargoyle watching me, his head cocked as if he is puzzling something out. “Go fetch your master some new clothes from the fallen men,” I tell him. “And weapons. Collect all the weapons they carry. We will have need of them soon enough.”

  The little man’s face lights up and he heads outside. “And check their saddlebags for any provisions!” I call after him. I packed only enough for two, and for only three days. I fear we will need twice that much to reach Rennes now. If Ismae were here, she would say that Blessed Mortain had delivered a solution into our waiting hands, but I say I have just grown adept at snatching providence from the jaws of disaster.

  I return to the hearth to stoke the fire back to life so that I may prepare yet another batch of poultices. As much as they pain Beast, they are no fun for me, either. My hands are red and raw from the heat and the mud. At least they will not look like a noblewoman’s much longer.

  The little man returns carrying a pile of clothing, and I sort through the pickings, looking for the ones that will come the closest to fitting Beast. The soldier that took the knife in the throat is the biggest by far, but now there are bloodstains on his jerkin. Even so, we use the bulk of his clothes, and I remove a jerkin from the next largest soldier. The rest I will use for bandages.

  “We will take their horses with us when we leave,” I tell the gargoyle. “Then we can change out the pulling team on the cart, which should allow us to make better time.”

  “I will not be hauled around like a bushel of turnips to market.” Beast’s deep voice rumbles from behind us. “I will ride one of the horses.”

  Slowly, I turn around. “You’re awake.”

  “Aye.”

  All my questions about Alyse crowd their way to my tongue and nearly leap out of my mouth. Instead, I ask, “How do you plan to stay in the saddle when you cannot even look out the window without fainting? It is a full twenty leagues between here and Rennes.”

  “I did not faint. And being carried in that cart is like being bumped along the road in a sack full of rocks. I will arrive in Rennes with my bones ground to dust. Lash me onto one of the horses instead. That way, even if I lose consciousness, I will not fall off.”

  And that is when I finally see a faint resemblance between him and his sister: in the stubborn set of his jaw. “You are not even well enough to sit up, much less ride a horse for the next several days.”

  “I am better,” he says obstinately, this time reminding me far too much of my sister Louise when she had lung fever and did not want to miss the Christmas festivities. “See?” He moves his injured arm more freely than before. I kneel next to him—to inspect his wounds more closely, I tell myself. But even as I put the back of my hand to his forehead, my eyes search his, looking for echoes of Alyse. Her lashes were not so dark or thick, but her eyes were very nearly as light a blue. “You still have a fever,” I tell him.

  “But it does not burn as hot.”

  “True.” Next, I inspect his arm. The redness and infection have gone down by half. “But your other injuries. Your ribs—”

  “You will bind my ribs tightly so they will not move. I can ride with only one hand on the reins.”

  I look up into his cold blue eyes that are not cold at all. “And what of your lance wound?” I reach for the blanket so I may look at it.

  The wound is still red, the flesh angry and swollen and oozing. “It will hurt like the very devil,” he concedes, “but the pain will help keep me alert.”

  The man is truly mad, possessed by battle fever even when there is no battle. “Everything I know of blood poisoning says the patient must rest in order to be strong enough to fight off the infection.”

  “Put a
nother sack of mud on it,” he says, as if that will make this scheme more reasonable.

  “I plan to,” I say, annoyed that the person I risked so much to rescue is now ordering me around as if I were a serving wench.

  He leans closer, pressing his case. “You know I am right. We will move at a slug’s pace in a cart and be an easy target for any pursuers. Or random bandits and outlaws, for that matter.”

  And of course, he is right. I glance behind me at the door to the courtyard, where the three men-at-arms lay dead, a chill moving across my shoulders at how very close d’Albret came to discovering us. “Very well,” I concede. D’Albret has cast his net, and if we do not get moving, he will find us.

  We spend the next hour making our plans. We will sleep one more night here, then leave as soon as it is light enough to see. I make another small fire in the hearth and set the mud and herbs for another poultice to boiling. When the mixture is nearly hot enough to blister skin, I fill a linen square with the mud and herbs, wrapping it as quickly as possible so the heat does not escape, nearly burning my fingers in the process.

  As I move away from the hearth, the jailor comes in from the yard, where he has collected every weapon d’Albret’s men carried. He sets them down next to Beast, then moves to take a turn at the dwindling embers in an attempt to prepare something for our empty bellies.

  Beast hisses as I lay a poultice on his shoulder. “Lie still,” I tell him.

  “I am,” he says between clenched teeth, then hisses again as I place the second poultice on his festering leg wound.

  He glares at me. “You needn’t enjoy this so much.”

  I send him a scathing glance. “You are deranged if you think I am enjoying being trapped in an abandoned hut with an ogre and a gargoyle as my only companions.” I turn away from him to collect the linen strips I made from the soldier’s unused shirts, surprised to realize I am enjoying this. There are no vipers slithering about underfoot nor nightmares lurking in the shadows.

  When I turn back to him, I make sure none of my thoughts show on my face. “Can you sit up so I can bind your ribs?” If he cannot sit, best we know it now so we can alter our plans. He grunts an assent, the muscles in his abdomen shifting and rippling like waves as he pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes close for a moment.

  “Are you going to faint again?” I hurry around to block his fall so he will not crash to the ground. Although like as not he would just take me to the floor with him.

  “No,” he grunts.

  I wait a minute to be sure he isn’t fooling himself, then go back and pick up the linen strip and begin wrapping it around his torso. Even after being locked away for more than a fortnight, he is as thick as a tree trunk.

  “For a woman with a sharp tongue, you have surprisingly gentle hands,” he says.

  “I think your injuries have caused you to lose the feeling in your body, for while I am many things, none of them are gentle.”

  He says nothing but watches me, as if trying to peer past my skin and my bone to my very soul. Under his scrutiny, my movements grow clumsy. “Here,” I say shortly. “Hold that in place.” I turn and fetch another piece of linen.

  “Did these brothers of yours suffer broken ribs often?” he asks.

  “Once or twice,” I mutter, busying myself with the second strip. “They were clumsy lads and constantly falling from their horses.” I do not meet his gaze, for of course they were not. Pierre’s ribs were broken when, at twelve years of age, he was unseated from his horse by a blow from a lance in tourney practice. My father kicked him until he rose to his feet and remounted his horse. He suffered far more from my father’s kicks than from the fall.

  And Julian—ah, Julian. His ribs were broken while trying to protect me from my father’s wrath.

  “What’s wrong?” Beast asks softly.

  “Nothing,” I tell him, pulling the bandage so tight that he grunts in protest. “I only worry about how we will get you back on your horse if you fall off.”

  Beast says nothing more until the gargoyle motions to us that our supper is ready. I secure the last bandage and hand Beast the bowl of what appears to be gruel with something unsavory-looking floating in it. “So,” I say, taking my own bowl. “Your man cannot tend wounds, nor even wash your face properly, nor is he a cook. What, precisely, is he to you?” I ask.

  Beast ignores me and shovels the gruel in as fast as he can. If his appetite has returned in full, that is a good sign. Or perhaps he is merely afraid that if it grows cool it will be inedible. Certainly that is my fear.

  When he is done, he sets the bowl down and turns his steady gaze to me. “Yannic was once my squire. When my sister left for d’Albret’s household, I ordered him to accompany her and send me regular reports on her well-being.”

  I gape at him, then turn to stare at Yannic. I am certain I never saw him in our household, although that would not be so unusual. My father has hundreds of servants and thousands of vassals, many of whom I have never met. “Could he speak then?” I am afraid I already know the answer.

  “Aye,” Beast says grimly. “And write, too.”

  I glance down at Yannic’s right hand to see that the top half of each of his three middle fingers has been removed so he cannot hold a quill. Unwilling to look either of them in the eye, I pretend I am busy fishing for a piece of sausage in my bowl.

  Did d’Albret remember this connection between his prisoner and his sixth wife’s attendant and use it as one rubs salt into a wound? Or was Yannic the only one available who lacked the power of speech and so made an ideal jailor? One could never be certain with d’Albret. “Does that mean Yannic would not mind if we asked him to pile the dead soldiers into the cart and set fire to them? It would be better to leave no signs of our stay.”

  The two men exchange a dark look, then Beast answers. “No, he would not mind a bit.”

  “Good, because we should not waste an opportunity to lead our pursuers well away from us. The smoke from such a large fire should get their attention, and the dead bodies will make them question just how many are in our party. If Yannic can drive the cart a mile or two east of here, the fire will also lead them in the wrong direction.”

  Beast grins. “If you ever tire of being Mortain’s handmaiden, I am certain Saint Camulos would be more than happy to accept your service.”

  I roll my eyes at the mere idea of such a thing, but his words please me, all the same.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WE TRY TO GET AN early start the next day, but between the little gnome of a jailor, the wounded giant, and—what role do I assign myself? The charioteer?—we are like a mummers’ farce. At last we get the horses ready and the gear packed and—most difficult of all—the lumbering, crippled Beast onto his saddle. I am exhausted before we even leave the yard, but when we finally do, I breathe a sigh of relief.

  In spite of what Beast claims, he is far from well enough to travel. We should stay at the hunting lodge another day or two to allow him more time to recover, but we dare not. While the lodge is well off the main road and not widely known, I have no doubt more of d’Albret’s men will find it soon enough. Luckily, I do not think it will be the first place they look, for they will assume we want to put more distance between ourselves and our pursuers. And they are right. The back of my neck tingles with foreboding.

  Brisk winds have blown the rain clouds away, and the sky above is clear and blue. All that clear sky makes a perfect backdrop for the thin trickle of smoke that rises from the smoldering remains of the night-soil cart and its inhabitants nearly a mile away.

  Please Mortain, let it buy us some time.

  But in case it does not, we are each armed with weapons scavenged from d’Albret’s men. With Yannic’s help, Beast has altered a scabbard so he may wear the sword on his back within easy reach. I, too, have a sword, but it is strapped to my saddle next to the crossbow that hangs there. Beast has also purloined the woodcutter’s ax from its place near the lodge’s woodpile. It hang
s from the left side of his saddle near his injured arm. Although how he expects to wield it, I do not know.

  We ride out in silence. Beast is wisely conserving his energy, and I have far too much to think about to waste time in idle conversation. If all goes well, we should be there in four days. If the fever does not consume Beast’s weakened body, and if he can stay in the saddle, and if d’Albret’s riders do not find us.

  My mind keeps running over what I know of the countryside, trying to think of the best route for us to take. The area around the hunting lodge is sparse woodland, which serves us well enough, but eventually we will come to fields or a road or, worst of all, a town. How many men will d’Albret have sent out, and where will they focus their search?

  And how long can Beast stay in the saddle? Already his head nods and he looks to be dozing. Or perhaps he has fainted again. I nudge my horse over to him to check, surprised when his head snaps up, his eyes focused on the trees in front of us. “Do you hear that?”

  I tilt my head. “What?”

  We continue forward, but more slowly. “That,” he says, his head cocked to the side. “Raised voices.”

  I stare at him in disbelief, for my own hearing is as sharp as anyone’s and I have not heard a peep. “Mayhap it is simply ringing in your ears from your injuries.”

  He gives a sharp shake of his head and urges his horse forward.

  “Wait!” I make a grab for his reins but miss. “In order to avoid trouble,” I remind him, “we move away from the noise, not toward it.”

  His head swings around and he pins me with the full force of his intense gaze. “What if those are more of d’Albret’s men? Will we have some innocent pay for our freedom?”

  “Of course not,” I snap. “But I am not used to this idea that your god allows you to kill at your own whim.”